—Poems by Donal Mahoney, St. Louis, MO
—Photos by Caschwa, Sacramento
—Photos by Caschwa, Sacramento
NORMAN DOESN'T GO TO FERGUSON, MISSOURI
Not far from Ferguson aflame
are quiet leafy neighborhoods
Norman Rockwell might have painted
when subdivisions first appeared.
These neighborhoods are beautiful
because Norman still comes back
four times a year, some say,
for touch-up work here and there
during the changing of the seasons.
He paints russets on the leaves in fall,
crystals on the snow in winter,
yellow on the daffodils in spring,
red and pink on roses in the summer.
But Norman doesn't paint in Ferguson
because Ferguson he says is Watts
raging down the road to resurrection.
Not far from Ferguson aflame
are quiet leafy neighborhoods
Norman Rockwell might have painted
when subdivisions first appeared.
These neighborhoods are beautiful
because Norman still comes back
four times a year, some say,
for touch-up work here and there
during the changing of the seasons.
He paints russets on the leaves in fall,
crystals on the snow in winter,
yellow on the daffodils in spring,
red and pink on roses in the summer.
But Norman doesn't paint in Ferguson
because Ferguson he says is Watts
raging down the road to resurrection.
TWIN GIRLS, 1948
Beth was always different
marching as she did
to an armless drummer.
Her sister Kate marched
to another drummer,
one with arms on certain days
but never with a drum
that caught the sticks Kate
kept in the air flailing.
When the girls were young
their mom and dad took them out
for walks on Sunday
afternoons in summer.
The girls waved to butterflies
but never to anyone else.
It was hard for other kids
peering from porches
to understand the problem.
When the twins were small
they didn't call it autism.
It had no name on my block.
Now the illness has a name
and different medications
that sometimes temper
but never cure.
The girls are women now
old and living in a big home
with others in a small band,
some still playing instruments
no one else can see.
THE PARISH CARNIVAL
That's Bernie's wife on the carousel
laughing and waving her arms.
Once again she won't get off
even though Bernie is yelling
next to the concession stand
jumping around in his wheel chair.
He's finished his cotton candy
and wants to go home.
He probably has to pee.
He never goes anywhere
except to the parish carnival.
He loves the cotton candy.
He says it's the same as when
he was a kid years ago
before he fell out of the tree.
He needs Stella more than ever now
to push his wheel chair and she does
except when she comes to the carnival
and gives old Bernie a big plume
of cotton candy and hops on the carousel
laughing and waving her arms
once a summer every year.
That's Bernie's wife on the carousel
laughing and waving her arms.
Once again she won't get off
even though Bernie is yelling
next to the concession stand
jumping around in his wheel chair.
He's finished his cotton candy
and wants to go home.
He probably has to pee.
He never goes anywhere
except to the parish carnival.
He loves the cotton candy.
He says it's the same as when
he was a kid years ago
before he fell out of the tree.
He needs Stella more than ever now
to push his wheel chair and she does
except when she comes to the carnival
and gives old Bernie a big plume
of cotton candy and hops on the carousel
laughing and waving her arms
once a summer every year.
NEW YORK TO CHICAGO: AN EMAIL ALERT
By email I ask her
what color panty
what color bra.
Red, she replies.
Silk. Lace.
Saks.
Stockings
or panty hose?
Stockings, she says.
Very high.
Seams.
Flats or heels?
Stilettos
in my suitcase,
she says.
Small shop
off Broadway.
Take a cab
from the airport,
I tell her.
I'll pay
if the pilot
won't land in
our yard.
THE DROUGHT
You drive down
the same country road
every day at dawn
and see through
plumes of dust
this tall thin woman
straight as a scarecrow
in front of a field of corn
holding a hoe like a flag
tugging at a straw hat
and staring at the corn
till she goes in the house
and sits at the table
looks through the window
past ancient curtains
and prays for the deluge
she and Elmer will need
for the slightest harvest
PINEAPPLE UPSIDE DOWN CAKE
Nothing is anywhere anymore,
Dad shouts over the phone.
His reveille again at 4 a.m.
Will I come over and find it?
What's missing, Dad, I ask.
It's midnight and I'm in bed.
It'll take awhile to get there.
Your mother went to make
pineapple upside down cake
hours ago and still no cake.
She's nowhere to be found.
I called the neighbors.
They won't come over.
It's just me and the dog
and he's asleep.
Son, I need your help.
Mom died 10 years ago, Dad.
You and I went to the funeral.
We buried her at St. Anthony's.
Remember all the rain?
And then the rainbow shining?
Son, you're right again.
Sorry I woke you but where's
the pineapple upside down cake?
I've been waiting for hours.
A little snack and I'll turn in.
SO YOU COME BACK TOMORROW, HEAR?
The next morning the lady says
take me out for breakfast
someplace I have never been
someplace I will never see again
unless you come back
and take me there again
an empty diner where the grill man
gives us sausage, bacon, eggs,
pours more coffee in our mugs.
That's the place I want to go forever.
So you come back tomorrow, hear?
and take me there again.
Tonight's LittleNip:
TOM-TOMS IN THE NIGHT
When he walks behind her
so many years his wife
up the staircase laughing
off to bed this night
he can hear the tom-toms
in the jungle of his night
and so he whispers softly
let's try for twins tonight.
________________________
—Medusa
